by Holly Bargo
“Where to?” the cabbie asked, eyes darting around liked a ball in a pinball machine.
Pyotr gave him the name of the hotel. The driver looked relieved at the destination. The Russian then looked down at his beloved’s flattened, sweat-dampened curls. Still thrumming with anger, concern, and dismay, Pyotr said nothing during the drive, sure that any words that spewed from his mouth would be the wrong ones. When the taxi pulled under the hotel’s porte cochere, Cecily had fallen asleep against him.
“Wake up, Cecily,” he said gently. She mumbled something incoherent and nuzzled him. He shook her gently and tapped her cheek. “Cecily, you need to wake up for a few minutes.”
She roused, blinking drowsily, and let him draw her from the car. He grabbed her bag and purse in one hand and helped her walk with the other.
“Feet hurt,” she mumbled.
“I’ll have you in bed in just a minute.”
“Mmm.”
With his dick fully rampant, Pyotr wanted nothing so much as to bury himself inside her wet, velvety heat. But he could not take advantage of her, so exhausted she could not stay awake and still angry with him. As soon as he unlocked the door and opened it, he swung her up into his arms and carried her into the room.
He walked straight to the bed and lay her down as gently as he would a baby. With a tender touch, he removed her shoes and socks. He noticed her bare left hand and patted down her pockets, growling a little to himself when he felt the hard lump in one front pocket. She hardly stirred as he removed her pants and fished out the diamond ring. He slid the ring over her finger. Then he removed her shirt and bra. The sight of her large, pillowy breasts nearly had him ejaculating in his pants. However, he controlled himself and satisfied his libido with only a lick to one pink nipple and a soft kiss to the other.
She was right. She smelled of sweat and grease and she needed a bath.
He tossed her soiled clothing aside and found one of his tee shirts. As he would a sleeping baby, he dressed her in the shirt and then tucked her between the sheets.
“We’ll talk tomorrow,” he whispered, undressed, and crawled into bed beside her. He hugged her close, despite the odors of work clinging to her. He had his Cecily back in his arms and that was worth any price.
Chapter 7
Cecily slept better than she had in weeks and she knew that it was due to more than not having gunfire and sirens nearby. Waking up in Pyotr’s arms felt good and right. A long, silent sigh eased from her lungs. I cannot let myself be lulled into going back to Cleveland, she thought. He’ll get me right where he wants me and I’ll be nothing more than his live-in girlfriend again. His mistress.
Pyotr woke instantly when she slithered from bed to indulge in a long, hot shower. His body missed the press of hers, but he knew that Cecily was ready to bolt. As much as he wanted to obliterate her every thought with hot, wild sex, he knew that would only lead to resentment and regret. She would resent him and he would regret that. No, the prudent course of action would be to keep his cock to himself until she was ready to come back to him, regardless of what he’d said to her the previous night.
He pulled on a pair of jeans and called for room service. If nothing else, he would make sure she ate properly. His pretty Cecily had lost weight.
When she emerged from the shower, breakfast had arrived.
“Sit. Eat,” he instructed. “Tell me what it will take for you to come back to Cleveland.”
Cecily stumbled and hastily righted herself. Words about her needing to make the relationship permanent and legal crowded her tongue, but she choked them back down. After all, his diamond adorned her finger with hard, brilliant promise. Maybe not his mistress after all. After a few seconds, she answered, “I’m not going back to Cleveland.”
“Cecily, that’s where I live and work.”
“I don’t like Cleveland. It’s cold and it smells. I like San Antonio and I intend to stay here.”
“You know I cannot just leave my work.”
“Your work is mostly illegal,” she pointed out. “You drive and you beat people up. I don’t mind the driving; there’s nothing wrong with being a chauffeur. But I hate that you beat people up.”
“I take no joy in it.”
“Then why do you do it? Can’t you find something else to do?”
Pyotr shook his head and set his big hands on the table between them. They were scarred and scabbed, the nails trimmed short, the fingers thick and blunt-tipped. “I don’t have Vitaly’s medical training or Gennady’s skill with computers. I’m a fighter, Cecily. It’s what I do best. There isn’t necessarily a wealth of job opportunities for someone like me.”
“You could be an instructor,” she suggested.
“An instructor?”
“Yes,” she replied, warming to the topic. “You could coach up-and-coming MMA fighters. Or teach self-defense.”
Pyotr looked at her with a touch of awe. Off the top of her head she’d given him two career options that he’d never thought of. Then reality set in. “If I did teach, I’d have to teach fighters for the Bratva.”
“I can’t be with you if you’re going to stay with the Bratva, Pyotr. What they do is wrong, even with Maksim working to legitimize the businesses. And I still don’t like Cleveland.”
He closed his eyes against her words. A knock on the door announced the arrival of their breakfast. Pyotr answered the door and signed the ticket, adding a modest tip. The server instructed him to simply leave the tray outside the door for pickup when they were finished. When the door closed and they were once again private, Cecily resumed their conversation.
“I won’t raise children in the Bratva,” she said, her voice gone hoarse. “Gia’s dad left the mafia and her grandfather respected that. He didn’t like it, but he respected her dad’s decision. Mr. Bonetti didn’t make it difficult; he got a doctorate in something frivolous like Renaissance literature—something that the mafia wouldn’t have any use for. Gia had the opportunity for a normal childhood. I had a normal childhood. I want my—our—children to have a normal childhood.”
Pyotr opened his eyes, stunned by her words. “You want to have children with me?”
She sighed and settled her hands over his. He noticed some new nicks and a small burn mark, hazards of her trade. The diamond on her hand sparkled.
“I love you, Pyotr.” There. She said it. Aloud. She said it again and added, “I would love to raise a family with you. But I cannot marry you if you stay involved in crime.”
Pyotr’s heart cracked as he watched tears well in her eyes and trickle down her face. He wanted more than anything to remain with his Cecily, to make babies with her. The mental image of her round and glowing, ripe with his child in her belly, made his gut clench.
A normal life.
He’d never had a normal life. Like Vitaly, he was an orphan. Like Vitaly, he’d joined the military as soon the system emancipated him. Like Vitaly, he’d thrived in an orderly environment of hierarchy and discipline. Unlike Vitaly, he liked fighting. He had mastered several branches of martial arts, mixing them into a devastating and lethal combination of precision, force, and brutality. Frequent and routine practice kept his body hard and his joints supple—and burned off every scrumptious calorie his Cecily had cooked for him.
“I must return within a week,” he said, his voice low and dull. Leaving the Bratva alive usually wasn’t an option. Perhaps if he managed to contract a terminal disease, the Bratva might allow him to leave a few days before he died. The dark humor depressed him.
Her breath hitched. That wasn’t the response she wanted.
“I’ll wait for you.”
“Not too long,” he murmured, though doing so broke his heart. “Give me twelve months, vozlyublennaya. If I cannot come to you within that time, then you must find another man who will make you happy and give you children.”
Cecily’s jaw dropped. He spoke as if he knew he would die within the next twelve months and wanted to give her enough time to grieve
him. Then, an ugly suspicion rose.
“Don’t you love me enough to stay here? With me?”
He raised his bleak gaze to her teary one. “I love you enough to set you free.”
“What do you hope to accomplish in a year?”
With his gaze steady and locked onto hers, she replied in a tone that brooked no argument, “Either I will have managed to leave the Bratva in twelve months or I will be dead.”
“I don’t want to you die, Pyotr.”
“And I don’t want to die. I want to marry you, build a life with you, make babies with you.” He shook his head. “The odds are against us.”
“You’re a gentle soul, Pyotr. Why did you join?” she asked, for the first time wondering the why of his involvement instead of merely resenting the fact of it.
He shrugged and saw no reason not to tell her. “I started fighting while I was still with the Russian army, an unsanctioned, underground fight here and there. I won, got a taste for high living, lived beyond my means.” He shrugged again. A common story of youthful arrogance and stupidity led to his current circumstance. “I got into debt and the Bratva were my creditors. In order to repay what I owed—with interest, of course—I found myself fighting for them.”
Cecily listened, incredulous. She readily acknowledged that her Pyotr loved the finer things in life: good food, Italian leather shoes, tailored clothes. But she never saw him splurge on anything that was not of excellent quality or that would not endure. His condominium wasn’t overly large or located in the most expensive part of the city. Though his furniture was of fine quality and a few original paintings by regional artists hung on the walls, he hadn’t filled the space to bursting with useless knickknacks, artwork, or appliances.
Her lack of a spoken response perturbed him. After a thick silence, he said, “I was young, maybe two or three years older than you are now. And I was stupid and careless. I’ve been indebted ever since because of that.”
“Surely, Maksim—”
“Maksim likes me, trusts me to a certain extent,” Pyotr said and shook his head slowly. “But he is Bratva first. Always.”
Cecily lowered her eyes. We’re doomed, she thought.
“I should return your ring,” she whispered, though the thought of severing that connection to him wrenched her heart, especially now that she’d admitted both of themselves that she loved him.
“No,” he denied her. “Perhaps it will give you some protection from other men who might think to poach what is mine. And you will think of me when it catches your eye.”
“I always think of you.” Her voice dropped low, the tone quiet with surprising intensity.
“Give me this week. Please?”
She glanced at the clock. “I have to be at work in two hours.”
“Then we’ll make them count,” he said. He cleared his throat and ordered, “Now eat. Our food is getting cold.”
They ate without further conversation. Silence hung heavily between them, swollen with emotion and unspoken thoughts. When they finished, Pyotr quickly found a Realtor and made an appointment to meet him yet that morning.
“Pyotr, I can’t afford a better place,” Cecily reminded him.
“Is too dangerous there,” he said. “I will help you.”
“Pyotr, I can’t accept that. I can’t let you support me like that.”
He waved aside her protests. “You will accept my help.” He glanced at the sparkling ring on her finger, then she did, too. “I take care of what is mine and, make no mistake, you... are... mine.”
Cecily’s ovaries cheered and her womb clenched at the blatant declaration of possessiveness and protectiveness. God, if all her favorite romance novel heroes were rolled up into one, they’d be just like Pyotr—just without the criminal connection. She sighed, knowing that he would rent a place for her, regardless of her objections or any concern for appearances. And she truly did loathe that cramped studio apartment in its seedy neighborhood and creepy neighbors.
“Fine,” she said with a huff. “But nothing too expensive or extravagant.”
“Of course,” he murmured, surprised at having won that particular argument so easily.
Five minutes later, they met the Realtor in the hotel lobby. He sat down with them, opened his laptop, and began to ask questions related to preferences for neighborhood, square footage, accessibility, and so forth.
“It needs to be within walking distance of my job,” she said. Sending a mutinous glare toward Pyotr, she added, “You are not buying me a car.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“I won’t use it if you do.”
He nodded, acknowledging that he could not force her to use a car if she declined to do so. He could, however, find her an apartment just far enough away that public transportation or walking would not be feasible options.
“Don’t even think about it,” she warned.
He schooled his expression to innocence.
The Realtor waited another beat, then continued with his rapid online search of available spaces.
“There are four options that may suit you, Mrs. Idaklyka.”
“Um, we’re not married,” Cecily corrected, her cheeks blooming bright red.
“Yet, my love,” Pyotr murmured as he took her hand and raised it to his lips. He kissed her palm and added, “But soon.”
Cecily squirmed on the vinyl upholstery.
The Realtor brightened and smiled. “Oh, so you’ll be moving down here and starting a whole new life together. How romantic!”
“Yes, isn’t it?” Cecily replied in a thin voice.
He turned his laptop around to display a listed property. “This one has one bedroom, a spacious living and dining area combined, a gourmet kitchen, and two full bathrooms. It’s located in the heart of downtown San Antonio. There are nightclubs, restaurants, and lots of shopping options nearby.” He paused, then told them the monthly rent.
“Too expensive,” Cecily refused. “And too far. I need something at the Navarro Street end.”
“Ah, well, let me check to see what’s available,” the Realtor said and tapped on the keyboard.
A couple of minutes later he displayed two options.
“Let’s go see those,” Pyotr said.
The Realtor offered to serve as their chauffeur and drove them to the first property. Pyotr looked around as they walked to the apartment building. His expression, inscrutable as they drove to the building, soured.
“Nyet. Is not safe.”
Cecily looked around and shrugged. It was much better than the neighborhood where she currently lived.
“Okay, let’s head to the other property,” the Realtor suggested with cheer.
They climbed back into his car. The Realtor put the car in gear and drove for a couple of minutes.
“Wait, stop!” Cecily cried. “What about that place?”
“What place?”
She pointed to a large Victorian with a discreet sign posted in its small front yard: “Apartment for Rent.”
The Realtor obliged and pulled aside. Determined to be positive, he said, “There’s a bus stop just a block away, so if the weather’s poor, you wouldn’t have to walk far.”
They stepped onto the wide veranda and approached the green painted door with its central window of stained and leaded glass. The Realtor rang the doorbell. From deep within the house, they heard slow steps approach.
“Yes?” inquired the elderly woman who answered.
“Hello, ma’am,” the Realtor said and pulled out a business card to hand to her. “I’m Gordon Hanway, a Realtor here in San Antonio. My clients, Miss Cecily Carrigan and Mr. Pyotr Idaklyka, are interested in the apartment you have for rent.” He gestured toward the sign.
“Oh? Well, come on in, then. Would you like a glass of lemonade or iced tea?”
“That would be lovely, thank you,” Cecily replied and offered the woman a friendly smile.
“Why aren’t you a pretty one?” the woman replied as they followed
her into an old-fashioned parlor. “Have a seat, please. I’ll bring y’all something cool to drink.”
They seated themselves. Pyotr looked around the room, noting the elaborate crown molding and baseboards and hardwood parquet floors. Their hostess returned bearing a lacquered wooden tray loaded with cut crystal tumblers filled with ice and lemonade.
“Now tell me what brings you here,” the woman said after serving each of them a glass and taking a seat in an elegant wing chair.
“My fiancé and I are looking for an apartment,” Cecily replied and took a sip from her sweating tumbler. “This is incredible. Did you add lavender oil to this?”
The old woman looked both pleased and surprised. “Why, yes, I did, young lady. How clever of you to notice.” She glanced at Pyotr, who sat next to Cecily on the loveseat. “And I assume that you are the lucky young man?”
Pyotr reached over to clasp Cecily’s left hand and raised it to his lips, kissing the back of her knuckles and replying, “Da.”
“You ain’t from here, are you?”
“Nyet.”
“Pyotr’s from Ohio and I’m from Indiana,” Cecily explained. “But we really love it down here away from the cold weather.”
The old woman frowned. That young man didn’t sound like no Yankee she’d ever heard. “I don’t hold with unwed couples living in sin.”
“Oh, Pyotr won’t be living here right away. He has business to conclude back in Ohio,” Cecily replied. “I’m afraid it would just be me until we can get married.”
“And t’other man there?”
“He’s our Realtor. He’s helping us find a nice place to live, since we’re not familiar with the area.” She looked around. “This house is just gorgeous.”
“My mama was born here and so was I and all seven of my children. I’ve lived here my whole life and ain’t never wanted to live anywhere else.”
“That’s a fabulous history. My parents live in the same farmhouse where my dad grew up. It’s been in the family for four generations.”
“Family history’s good. It anchors you.”
“That’s true”
“You have family, boy?”
